


Ghosts

by aphroditexnott



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bar Room Brawl, Binge Drinking, Daddy Issues, Death Eater Trials, Draco Malfoy in the Muggle World, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/M, Found Family, Grief/Mourning, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Healing, Please read the tags I beg of you, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Psychological Trauma, Rebuilding, Recreational Drug Use, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Tattoos, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, heavily based off hotel diablo, no beta we die like men, this is not a happy fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-16 07:54:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29450382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aphroditexnott/pseuds/aphroditexnott
Summary: Theo Nott lost almost everything worth living for on May 2nd. At seventeen, his parents and most of his friends were either dead, in prison or on the run. Hermione Granger spent the last year trying to protect the people closest to her, but came back from Australia a shell of herself after realizing she couldn't save everyone. Whether by fate or by sheer dumb luck, the two of them end up down the hall from each other at an inn in Diagon Alley after having nowhere else to go. Will the ghosts of the past seven years bring them closer together or push them off the edge?
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Theodore Nott
Comments: 11
Kudos: 22





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: This story has graphic depictions of self-harm, suicidal ideation and drug use. This is not meant for readers under the age of 18 and caution when reading is STRONGLY advised. PTSD is not something to be taken lightly or romanticized, and as something I struggle with myself, it's something that seeking help is definitely necessary for. If you are struggling with your mental health, please take care of yourself, skip this story if needed and call 1-800-273-8255 if you are in the United States and struggling with suicidal thoughts.
> 
> PLAYLIST: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7CMq3z2OIa5P4OxUKhruuH?si=I2fQqX_SR26WY6JmPOGR5Q

The dark, cold stone of the floor of the Slytherin seventh-year dormitories usually felt comforting to Theo Nott, but today it felt like ice shocking his skin every time he moved his bare feet or knelt to hunt down another remnant of the last year. 

It should have been another month or so before he’d have to do this - the packing, the finding memories from the exploits he and his roommates had gotten up to, the realization he’d have to go back to a home that wasn’t really a home anymore. He never thought it would end on a Sunday in May with half his friends headed to Azkaban or into hiding and the other half as cold as the floor beneath him.

He lifted up the thick green rug that occupied the space between his and Vincent Crabbe’s beds. The rug that Vince had demanded be put there because he  _ couldn’t stand the cold that seeped through his socks.  _ The stupidest reasoning, he’d thought when Vince brought it in. A heating charm could’ve done the job for the whole room, but the rug stayed, no matter how many times Draco said it was ugly or Blaise laughed at the mundanity of the whole predicament. Now it was just a reminder that Vince would never come pick it up and bring it home with him.

_ They never found his body. _ He knelt down and folded the rug in half, finding a stray sock and tossing it into his haphazardly-filled trunk.

_ Draco said he did it to himself, casting the fiendfyre like that.  _ Theo’s hands ran over the edges of the rug, angrily grasping the corners. 

_ Why the fuck was the last thing I told him was that he was a wanker for agreeing with Carrow. He didn’t talk to me for two days - probably died angry at me.  _ He lifted up the rug and threw it onto Vince’s unmade bed while letting out a guttural scream that bounced off the dorm’s stone walls.

The floor underneath where the rug once covered was cleaner than the surrounding area, although there were a few random items of his and Vince’s - a five-pound note, ripped parchment from an Ancient Runes essay gone wrong, a single razor blade, some ribbon and a pair of boxers - that had been discarded and slid under the rug over the last eight months. Theo Banished the boxers, parchment and ribbon over to the rubbish bin between Blaise’s bed and the door and pocketed the five-pound note. 

The razor blade sat alone on the floor in front of him, taunting him as he slid off his knees and leaned up against the bed frame. Theo’s body shuddered as it absorbed the feeling of the cold stone through his gray sweatpants, his shirtless back rubbing against the wood of the four-poster. He glanced from the piece of metal in front of him to his mostly-full trunk, to the empty, unmade beds of the roommates he’d probably never see again.

_ Just fucking do it, it’ll make you feel better.  _ His eyes fixed on the metal blade, the numbness in his body seeking some sort of ending, something to  _ just feel.  _ He fumbled in his pocket for his wand, clutching it for dear life.

“Accio blade.”

Theo’s hand shook, the blade teetering between his fingers. His hand hovered above his chest, the pale, unblemished skin like a fresh canvas. He hesitated a second, took a deep breath and sunk the cold blade into his skin, sliding his hand across as the blood dripped down his body and a jagged opening began to form. 

He hissed in pain, continuing on as he cut diagonally across his bare chest. Blood covered his hand and dripped onto his sweatpants as his mind raced, thinking of his friends. 

_ Vince is dead and there’s no body. Draco’s on the run. Greg killed his ex-girlfriend Tracey and Professor Slughorn and now he’s as good as dead in Azkaban. Blaise killed himself so Voldemort wouldn’t kill him first for defecting. Millie’s in Azkaban too, she took the Mark near the end. I don’t know what the fuck happened to Pansy or Daphne, but I’m sure they either fled or died - haven’t seen either of them in a week since the battle. _

Theo breathed in, the fresh cut stung as his chest moved up and down with the air entering and exiting his lungs. The pain he felt was finally enough for the tears to start flowing, and soon their salty wetness mixed with the metallic blood that covered his hands as he wiped off his face.

***

Hermione Granger sat Disillusioned on the steps of the house she’d tracked her parents to in a suburb of Brisbane, shaking hands gripping the newspaper clipping from January. 

\--

**_Tragedy strikes British couple months after moving to ‘dream home’ Thorneside_ **

_ Friends and neighbours in Thorneside are mourning the unexpected deaths of a British couple who had recently moved to the area. _

_ Dentist Wendell Wilkins, 67, and his wife Monica, 63, were found dead on the shores of Wellington Point after their rented kayaks capsized in Mooreton Bay on January 17. The pair were not wearing life vests. _

_ “The couple were reported missing shortly after 1pm on Saturday afternoon, two hours after they were expected to return their kayaks to the rental counter,” Brisbane police said in a statement.  _

_ Search and rescue were immediately called out, finding the bodies of Dr and Mrs Wilkins shortly after 5pm.  _

_ Brisbane police are continuing to investigate the drownings, although foul play has been ruled out at this point. _

_ Inspector Stephen Briggs said, “Dr and Mrs Wilkins were found near a patch of shore that is known for rough waters and sharp rocks. We are investigating further to ensure the safety of all boaters in Mooreton Bay after this freak accident.” _

_ The couple had moved to Thorneside from Britain in June after Mrs Wilkins’ parents died, deciding the time was right to move to Australia, their “dream home”, says neighbour Jessica Wilder.  _

_ Dr Wilkins immediately became a favourite in the town’s paediatric dental practise, his love for children and passion for the profession winning over many a parent. Mrs Wilkins became involved with the local Woman’s Shelter, helping many local families recover from domestic abuse.  _

_ “They were just a lovely pair of people with so much to give our community, it’s a shame they had to go so soon,” Ms Wilder said. _

_ Funeral arrangements for the Wilkins’ are pending until Brisbane Police and the coroner finish their investigation. _

_ \-- _

Accidental drowning in a kayak accident. She couldn’t have done anything to prevent that one. All of her efforts to keep her parents safe and away from the war raging in Britain were for naught, they barely lasted six months before something completely mundane and unpreventable took their lives.

_ It just isn’t fair. _ She glanced from the clipping to the “for-sale” sign in front of the house, hands gripping the thin scrap of paper like a vise. 

Her breathing sped up, heart racing, a flood of tingling pain shooting through her entire body as she sat frozen on the stoop. Daniel and Helena Granger didn’t exist to the world at all anymore, and there was no potential for her life to be normal again.

_ As if it ever was. They never were the greatest parents out there, but they tried to understand everything that was going on.  _

As an only child to parents who had gotten married later in life, the divide between mum, dad and daughter was sometimes so deep that Hermione struggled to open up to them about what she needed or wanted - especially after she had been accepted to Hogwarts. Her mum had taken entire summers off at the dental practise so she could spend time with her only daughter, while her dad threw himself into his job further, getting certifications in every type of dental surgery possible so he could pretend the problems Hermione was facing weren’t real.

Once she had come home after Cedric died during her fourth year, the shift became more pronounced.  _ Dad didn’t want to believe that a seventeen-year-old could get killed for no reason other than being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and Mum wanted to fill my days with so much activity so I would just forget what happened and move on without processing it. _

The “just-keep-running” mentality Helena had instilled in her had followed her like a ball and chain over the next three years, forcing her to move on to the next horrible thing in line and not stop to think just how fucked up the world around her was. She forced herself to say yes to Harry and skipped her last year of school to go on the run, because then  _ at least she would be useful to someone.  _

She endured brutal torture from Bellatrix Lestrange and ran her body into the ground for the nine months she spent chasing the remnants of Tom Riddle’s soul around Britain, not thinking once about whether this was the right decision for her specifically or if she had too much to lose by following Harry and Ron around instead of finishing her studies elsewhere. It was always about necessity and loyalty to her friends and to what was morally right rather than what  _ she actually wanted _ .

_ What do I actually want? Did I even let myself plan out a future after finding my parents? Did I even really expect myself to live past eighteen?  _ Each thought seared through her brain like a stabbing knife, their intensity causing her to ball up her fists and rip up the newspaper clipping she’d been holding and toss it on the concrete walkway below the stoop. 

Her mind kept racing. She was teetering on the surface right now, but soon she’d feel like she was drowning -  _ just like my parents, _ she thought. The weight of the last three years had finally caught up to her, here on the stoop of the last place her parents had lived.

_ I never got to say goodbye, I just did it and agonized over it and assumed I would see them when the war was over because I just had to. It was never a question of if I would see them, it was always when. I left for Australia right away because it made sense - Harry has Teddy to take care of and a slew of legal things to sift through and Ron and his family are grieving Fred and they needed to do that alone in peace, without me. _

_ Funeral arrangements. _

_ Are pending.  _

_ Until Brisbane Police. _

_ And the coroner. _

_ Finish their investigation. _

The words replayed themselves over and over in Hermione’s head like they were the only occupants of her brain. Her breathing became shallower and her eyes began to fill with tears, but they physically refused to flow down her face - her mum had spent so much time reinforcing the fact that  _ crying was naughty  _ when she was a child that it became near to impossible to let go and cry, no matter who died or what horrible things happened.

She observed her surroundings, thought through where she thought her mum and dad would be buried, and made sure the Disillusionment Charm she’d cast earlier had held up before Apparating to the cemetery near the edge of town to hopefully pay her last respects. 

***

Diagon Alley had changed significantly over the last year and a half, with the majority of businesses either closed, boarded off or completely destroyed by the Death Eaters’ reign of terror. The Galloping Graphorn Inn, where Marcus Flint and Miles Bletchley spent most of their time as proprietors while not playing professional Quidditch, had been subject to the same fate as many of its neighbors. 

Boards lined the inn’s three levels of windows, metal bars over the plywood for even more protection; Miles didn’t name the place the Galloping Graphorn for nothing. Known for a younger, more rough around the edges crowd than the Leaky Cauldron, the Graphorn as of late had been reaping the benefits of the damage the Leaky had sustained in an attack in March - which currently meant taking in the Hogwarts students with nowhere to go after last week’s battle.

Both Miles and Marcus were infinitely more prepared for crowds of rowdy Quidditch fans than a bunch of traumatized kids, but this was 1998. Quidditch was cancelled, their usual clientele was either dead, in Azkaban or too scared to enter an establishment owned by two former Slytherins because of the possible implications. 

_ Business is business,  _ Miles thought to himself as he wiped down the bar before the kids that had arrived at the Graphorn over the last few days showed up to pick up their food. Marcus and the house elves that the inn employed had been paying more attention to the needs of the four young Slytherins that now occupied their rooms than he had.

If Miles was being honest, he was more afraid that he would lose his underground tattoo business, the Graphorn’s biggest source of income, if the kids stayed long-term, because tattoos became taboo and less acceptable as the war raged. He looked down at his rolled-up sleeves and eyed his own heavily-tattooed forearms. 

_ Fuck the Dark Tosser. These used to be sort of cool, but now if the Graphorn goes under, I don’t think I’ll be able to get another job because employers will think I’m covering up the Dark Mark no matter what these look like. _

He sighed, grabbed his rag and went back to wiping down tables as the hundreds of candles hovering above him for light flickered and punk music blasted from the speakers he’d installed under the bar. As he started humming along to a song from the Muggle band Blink-182, he heard the familiar crack of Apparition in front of him.

***

Theo’s entire body ached as he appeared at the entrance of the Galloping Graphorn,  _ the only place I’m allowed to go because my fucking father had to go take the Mark which means the sodding Ministry locked off my house after they took him into custody. _

He pulled at the green tee shirt he was wearing, the jagged open cut he’d carved into his chest hours earlier stung like hell against the cotton covering his skin. He winced a bit and glanced towards Bletchley and the bar, knowing he’d be able to ease the pain if he got the balls to just  _ go up there and ask for a room and a drink. _

“Nott? Theo? Is that you?” Bletchley noticed him first, putting the rag in the back pocket of his pants while he made his way to the door.

“In the flesh,”  _ unfortunately, _ Theo quipped, mentally adding the last part. “I was hoping you’d maybe have a place for me to stay for a bit,” he motioned to his trunk.

Bletchley -  _ no, Miles _ \- took a long look at him. Theo  _ knew _ he looked like hell, his usually-neat brown curly hair was sticking up all over the place, he had bags the size of Saturn’s rings under his eyes from crying and lack of sleep, and his face and shirt still had traces of blood on them from that morning’s…  _ activities. _

“I need to see your left arm.”

Theo blinked, Miles’ words going in one ear and out the other. He was still focusing on the pain from Apparating with a giant open cut on his chest.

“Nott. Your left arm,  _ please. _ ” Miles demanded louder, his expression irate.

He sighed and held the offending appendage out for inspection. “No Dark Mark. There. Is that good enough for you?” His exhaustion and pain were written all over his body, Theo’s temper getting shorter with every interaction.

Miles did a once-over and Banished Theo’s trunk, motioning toward the bar.

“You can stay,  _ for now,  _ free of charge,” the older man replied, the emphasis on the “for now” obviously a warning to  _ please for the love of god not fuck this up or do anything like what the other seventh-year Slytherins did. _ “Got a couple other younger classmates in the same situation. Three second-years and a fourth year, Pritchard.”

_ Those little kids are absolutely fucking not in the same situation _ , Theo thought.  _ Graham Pritchard could easily go into the Ministry and ask to go to whatever fucking pureblood family he wanted because his grandmum had no stake in the war before she died. If I did that, I’d get laughed at because I’m of age and my dad’s facing life in Azkaban.  _

He laughed darkly, forcing Miles to look at him closer, to really let the reality of  _ Theo Nott  _ asking for a place to stay sink in.

“Food’s coming out in an hour and a half. You okay with meat lasagna?”

Theo just blinked at him and groaned noncommittally, exhaustion written all over his face as the loud music added to his pain. 

Miles reached into his pocket and grabbed a key, cast a Gemino and handed it over to Theo. “You’re room 2C, second floor two to the left. One of the elves will bring your food up since you’re clearly not in a state to eat it down here tonight. Get some sleep though, you look like shite.”

_ Bletchley doesn’t even know the half of it. _

Theo shoved the key into his pocket and muttered his thanks to Miles, heading out of the bar and up the stairs as fast as possible.

Once he’d made his way into his -  _ no, fuck no, this room does not belong to me _ \- room, Theo slammed the door and launched himself face-first onto the double bed in the middle of the room. He let out a brief scream of pain as his cut opened again from moving onto the bed, but ignored the blood and open wound as his head hit the pillow as he drifted out of consciousness without processing the fact he’d left school and ended up in Bletchley and Flint’s inn for the foreseeable future.

***

Marcus Flint was a man who claimed he’d seen so much in his 22 years of life that nothing surprised him anymore. He’d played Chaser for the England national team and traveled the world playing in different leagues, collecting tattoos and stories from women that reminded him there was much more to life than the war raging on in his native country. 

Sometimes Marcus felt like a coward for running away to America and Russia to play when there was so much on the line in England, but reading the lists of the dead and imprisoned in the Prophet made him realize his selfish decision to leave the Graphorn to play Quidditch abroad left him in a better place than many of his peers.

_ Like Theo Nott,  _ he thought.  _ Miles said the kid looked like he’d been through a meat grinder when he showed up an hour ago. Dad’s in jail, mum’s dead, all his friends are either dead, in jail or on the run… fuck. _

He’d just finished serving up the night’s dinner to the four other young guests at the Graphorn and put the leftovers away for Theo to go grab later. It was 8:30 pm, far past the normal check-in time, and with no one else expected to show up at the bar, Marcus turned off the music, lit up a cigarette with his wand and took a long drag.

Taking the cigarette off his lips and fiddling with it in his hand, he heard consistent banging and shouting at the Graphorn’s entrance. 

“Please let me in! Somebody! Anybody! They’re dead and this is the last place with room!” a desperate, half-screaming, half crying female voice rang out. Marcus dropped the cigarette and put his wand to his key to alert Miles and the elves someone was at the door. Not looking where he was going, he hit a chair on his way to the door and swore loudly.  _ That one’s going to hurt tomorrow. _

Marcus composed himself and reached for the handle of the heavy door, but after seeing who was on the other side, his poker face slipped.

_ Holy fuck.  _ Her usually-curly hair was matted into a braid, dress and sweater covered in mud and Floo powder. Marcus could tell she’d been crying for an extended period of time, plus she looked like she hadn’t slept since the battle a week before.

He took a breath in and motioned for her to enter before his realization of exactly who he’d just let in sunk in. 

“Hermione Granger?”


	2. two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone,
> 
> I have made the difficult decision to take Fresh Start Fever off of AO3 due to really young readers finding it and glorifying the scene in chapter six where my characters are binge drinking and doing recreational drugs, specifically a thirteen-year-old on TikTok calling it “goals”. As someone with a close family member that struggles with drug addiction that I’ve had to watch be in and out of rehab and jail FOR MY ENTIRE LIFE, this comment was not at all something I wanted to see, especially from someone that young. That fic had a plotline involving drugs, alcohol and unhealthy relationships not for purposes of romanticization, but to show how those things affect entire families and create problems and trauma that are possible to heal from with help and support from family. I had a lot of hesitation about writing chapter seven after receiving that comment and taking my work off Wattpad, especially because my planned plot was going to get significantly darker and readers were wanting to place themselves in some of the scenes I had written.
> 
> I want to reiterate that my works are NOT intended for readers under the age of eighteen, especially this one. I know that I cannot control who reads or finds my fic, but as someone who is 25 years old I really don’t feel comfortable exposing super young kids to the content in this story. For this reason, I will not be posting or promoting Ghosts on any other platforms. EVER. If any of you see it on another fic site or recc’d on TikTok or Twitter without a content warning, please let me know immediately. This is a passion project for me as well as a way to heal from my own trauma and I truly do not want it taken the wrong way or to have the actions of my characters glorified. Additionally, if the comments continue, I will likely restrict this work to registered AO3 users only and close it to comments.
> 
> I am really upset about how sites like TikTok and Twitter have forced so many wonderful authors, many of whom I am lucky enough to call my friends, to leave the fandom and take their work down because people are not respectfully interacting with the content that they are putting out. Authors are people too, and it’s really important that when you’re interacting with or promoting a fic to remember that there is someone behind the story who’s put their entire heart into it and that their wishes and boundaries need to be respected. Before you comment or recc, please think about what you are about to say and who could see it.
> 
> That said, the trigger warnings for this chapter are as follows: intrusive thoughts, suicidal ideation, graphic depiction of self-harm, blood, and general symptoms of PTSD, anxiety and depression. If ANY of these things trigger you, I strongly encourage you to stop reading, take care of yourself and find another fic. It won’t bother me - I know my work is not for everyone and I’d rather have potential readers be safe and healthy rather than in an unhealthy place due to my writing.
> 
> Much love,
> 
> Kelly

Hermione took a deep breath in as she looked up at the man who’d opened the door. He looked familiar but she couldn’t place his name. She knew he’d gone to Hogwarts, but definitely wasn’t a Gryffindor - she would have recognized someone that large if he’d passed through the common room over the years.

And then she looked behind him and noticed the flames dancing across the floor.

“There’s a fire behind you,” she said matter-of-factly, not knowing if it was  _ typical for this place or actually out of sorts. _

The man’s head snapped in the direction of the flames, and in one quick motion he muttered an Aguamenti, the water dousing the flames and penetrating the hardwood floor. “Damn it. Dropped my cig while I was running for the door and it must’ve not been out yet.”

Hermione just shook her head, wondering _how the hell she had ended up at the Galloping Graphorn_ _out of all the possible places_. It was a place she wouldn’t have been caught dead in if circumstances were different - the crowd it attracted was a little too _likely to call her Mudblood_ for her taste.

But her taste wasn’t something she was allowed to consider now. Her parents were dead, she didn’t feel welcome with Harry or Ron, and the Leaky Cauldron had been destroyed. The Graphorn was her last resort and she was lucky it wasn’t a more dangerous option. 

“Do you have room for me to stay? I have nowhere to go,” she looked at the older man as he knelt down and picked up the cigarette that previously ignited the floor. He was tall and imposing, definitely well over six and a half feet tall, his t-shirt sleeves exposing an impressive amount of tattoos on both arms. Hermione noticed the word “FLINT” running down his left arm in Gothic script, and ran through her mental list of classmates.

_ Flint? Flint? Marcus Flint. Five years above me, Slytherin, played Quidditch, and last I’d heard ran off to America to play for some team there near the ocean. Must be nice to not have to worry about dying every second for the last four years. _

Marcus gave her a once-over, taking in the tears running down her face, her braid of matted hair, her favorite floral dress and cardigan she’d planned to wear when re-meeting her parents, and the battered Converse that were covered in blood and potions ingredients. 

He took a deep breath. “I know you wouldn’t be here if the situation you were in was good,” Marcus paused, glanced at the scorch mark on the floor and looked back at Hermione. “You don’t have to tell me what happened, but just know there are a few other Hogwarts kids here in similar situations - no parents, locked out of their homes, too scared to return to their parents. Miles and I might be young but at the Graphorn we take care of our own, and right now that means young people needing a place to stay and heal.”

Hermione swallowed, nodding while rubbing her soot-covered face. “Thank you. Let me know if you want payment or help around the inn.”

“Don’t you dare,” Marcus replied, reaching into his pocket for the skeleton key and silently cast a Gemino charm and handed the resulting key to Hermione, who reluctantly took it out of his hand, glancing at the tattoos on his knuckles with logos of all the teams he’d played for. “You’ve done enough over the last four years and didn’t get the chance to  _ be a child, _ ” he said pointedly. “You’re in room 2E, which is the third room to the left on the second floor. A house elf will bring you a meal later tonight if that’s alright with you, we’ve got meat lasagna from earlier.”

Hermione blinked. “That’s fine,” she said tersely. 

Marcus motioned to the staircase at the back of the inn, where a shorter man -  _ Miles Bletchley _ , she remembered - was standing and giving her a once-over. She took off toward the stairs, acknowledging Bletchley with a nod, and up to the room where her new life would start.

***

Theo awoke in the morning to the slam of a door that wasn’t his. His eyes slowly opened, taking in his surroundings. 

_ White sheets. Brick wall. Windows covered with… boards? Right. The Galloping Graphorn. Bletchley gave me a key to a room a while ago.  _

He groaned and rolled over, pushing himself up to sitting and noticing the sting of the cut on his chest along with the bloodstains on the sheets that were presumably from it opening up again.

“Fuck,” Theo hissed. The pain was a distraction from everything going on around him, the friends he’d lost, the home he could never go back to. But it was  _ pain _ . And Theo didn’t particularly like pain.

In fact, when he was younger he tried to cut out as many opportunities for physical pain as he could. He’d specifically avoided playing Quidditch because of the high potential of getting injured, and picked his elective classes methodically to avoid subjects with practicals that offered the risk of things going wrong. 

The war had changed all of that. Theo needed an outlet for the mental pain that had been bubbling toward the surface his whole life, and as he watched his friends die, go to prison or run away, he felt like he had no other option to numb out the sense of loss and emptiness he’d felt. 

He gingerly toyed with the hem of his tee shirt, eventually grabbing hold of it and pulling the offending garment over his head in one fluid motion. The cut on his chest was noticeable as soon as Theo looked down, the angry, jagged red line that danced diagonally across his otherwise-smooth skin taunting him as if to say  _ do it again, it’ll make you forget. _

The presence of the thought in his head startled him and sent his body into numbness and mind into freefall. Bile rose in his throat when he realized that he wanted to subject himself to more pain, but the thought wouldn’t stick. He was frozen, heart racing, feeling like it wasn’t  _ him in his head or body anymore. _ He sat on the bed, unable to think clearly for a few minutes, and then looked down again at the blood stains on the bed and his sweatpants.

_ Shower. You could always drown yourself so you’d be dead like your mum and friends. Fuck, Theo, no. Shower. SHOWER. Get up. _

Theo let out a frustrated groan at the continued presence of the intrusive thoughts telling him he’d be better off dead, tried to brush them off again,  _ to forget about it, _ and maneuvered himself out of the bed and shuffled to the ensuite bathroom. 

The Theo he saw in the mirror when the light in the bathroom turned on wasn’t the Theo he’d known for the last eighteen years. This Theo was lacking sleep, ragged, more bones than muscle and  _ of course has a fucking scar that looks like my chest got mauled by some animal.  _ He shook his head, turned away from the mirror and took off the sweatpants and boxers he’d been wearing for far too long, grabbing his wand out of the pocket of his sweats and unceremoniously tossing it onto the counter next to the sink.

He stepped into the shower, closing the glass door and turning the dial to an optimal temperature. The water dribbled onto his skin, each drop either soothing or burning depending where it landed in relation to his cut. As he started to rub soap onto his body, he made sure to be careful to avoid the cut, because it would  _ sting like hell  _ and the  _ last thing he wanted right now was even more pain. _

_ Just clean off your cuts, you coward.  _ The voice in Theo’s head struck again, urging him to slide the bar of soap across his chest with vigor. When the soap collided with his open wound, the cacophony of nerve signals of  _ pain pain pain this hurts _ danced through his mind, forcing him to sit on the floor of the shower, tears dripping down his face from his impulse decision.

Theo set down the soap and ran his fingers through his hair as the warm water washed away the remaining blood, tears and filth from the war. His mind was paralyzed and unable to focus on anything other than the rhythm of the water coming out of the showerhead and tears coming out of his eyes for the next few minutes.

And then the water cut off abruptly and all Theo could hear was a woman’s scream.

“Why do they have to be gone?”

“Mum! Dad! I never meant to do this to you, I just wanted you to be safe damn it!”

A second, guttural scream shook the walls and shockwaves of uncontrolled magic broke the mirror and made the lights in the bathroom flicker. Theo got up off the shower floor, shivered and grabbed a towel, careful to not touch the mosaic of broken glass that littered the bathroom as he reached for his wand after covering himself up.

“Reparo.”

As the shards of glass made their way back into the shape of a mirror, Theo took a look at his reflection again in the flickering light.

The woman screamed again, Theo’s mind blocking out the specifics of her cries so he could take a breath.

_ Maybe I’m not the only one with ghosts here,  _ he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this relatively short chapter and sticking with me! I plan to update this fairly frequently, but not on a specific schedule at this time. At the moment I have seventeen chapters planned out, but I'm fairly sure this will end up being around 40 ish chapters once it's done. I really appreciate all of your support and I can't wait for you to see what I have planned.

**Author's Note:**

> The idea of this fic originally started as a one-shot, but it very VERY quickly morphed into a lot more! Special thanks to Eliana for getting excited enough over this to make it a multi-chapter, longer fic. This is probably going to update on an opposite schedule to FSF at this point in time, but that could change in the future. Thank you so much for giving this a read and I can't wait to update this again after the next chapter of FSF!


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